


England Prevails

by Sapphy, SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Category: Being Human (UK), British Comedian RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Thick of It (UK), V for Vendetta (2005), V for Vendetta (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Christianity, Classical Music, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dystopia, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Islamophabia, Other, Racism, Vampires, Vigilantism, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humanity will not be defeated. Humanity will not be corrupted. The vampires, the homosexuals, the Muslims, they're trying to destroy us, but despite their best efforts, England Prevails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was the result of a late-night November 5th viewing of V for Vendetta.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated
> 
> Not Beta'd (or particularly well thought through)
> 
> I own nothing except a cat and a large vintage birdcage

It’s raining the day they bury the most important man in England.

 

Lestrade hunches into his overcoat, trying to ignore the cold trickle of water running down the back of his neck. He’s one of only three people at the graveside.

 

The bible’s pages make a soft wet sound when the vicar closes it, barely audible over the thudding of the rain in the cemeteries trees. He walks away, the skirts of his cassock trailing against the too long grass.

 

“It’s going to go bad,” the figure beside him says.

 

Lestrade turns, looks into the face of the man he has been honoured to call friend and ally.

 

“He was too powerful,” Sherlock says, staring down at the coffin. “No one can replace him, and the country cannot function without him.”

 

“Powerful men have died before.”

 

“None as powerful as him. None at such a critical time.” Sherlock turns, and his eyes are pure black. “There is no one now to keep the peace between my kind, and yours.”

 

Lestrade knows little about what Sherlock is, has made a point of not knowing. He wishes, now, that he knew more.

 

“Go home,” Sherlock says softly. “Go back to Molly. War’s coming, whatever we do, so we might as well be happy while we can.”

 

He sounds like John, like a weary veteran, and Lestrade thinks of 221B, silent now except for Sherlock’s violin, and of Mycroft, still and quiet in the earth, and he shakes his head. 

 

“I’ll stay with you a little while longer,” he says.

 

If he goes home now, back to Molly and little Dom, he can’t help feeling he’ll be taking Sherlock’s despair with him.

 

Sherlock steps closer to him and they stand together, staring down at the grave, rain and tears mingling on their faces.


	2. Blind Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve Watson has a strange encounter on November 4th

Eve’s shivering insider her coat. It’s too thin for the November chill, but it’s more presentable than her warm parka. The parka had been her mother’s and the fabric is a little torn where she’d picked off the anti-Sutler and Humanoid Alliance patches.

 

She doesn’t even know why she’s going. Julian had smiled at her when he’d given her the invitation, that crooked smile that might be meant to be flirtatious or might just be friendly. She’s not the only one going, she knows (thank goodness, she likes Julian, but Noel, who lives in his basement and cooks for him, is disconcerting) but she knows none of the others will be people she really knows. They’ll be higher up in the business than her, stars not backstage gophers, and she knows, rationally, that she should be pleased about the chance to make contacts, but mostly she’s just wishing she were home, curled up in bed with a book and a cup of tea, not out in the cold in a too thin coat and uncomfortable shoes.

 

In the old days Taxis were available all night, and so were busses and even the tube, long since shut down. Now, if you want to be out after the curfew, you have to walk.

 

London’s alleys always feel sinister to her, a country girl no matter how long she’s lived inside the exclusion zone. It was one of the few things the Facility hadn’t taken away from her. Inside the blinding white walls, she’d somehow hung onto her mother’s coat, and her suspicion of towns, and her fear. That’s all she is, really. Suspicion and fear and memories.

 

She’s sure she can hear footsteps behind her in the darkness and she speeds up a little, tottering on heels she’s not used to.

 

The footsteps are ahead of her now, and she relaxes as little because they must be her imagination. No one could have passed her in the darkness.

 

She’s just starting to slow down a little, scolding herself for her silliness, when a man steps out of the shadows ahead of her.

 

He bares his teeth, grey tombstones in the half-light, more a snarl than a smile, and she turns to run. It’s after curfew but there’ll be people about all the same. Londoners have never taken well to rules.

 

There’s a second man behind her, as big as his companion is small.

 

She hates herself a little more than usual for the shriek that escapes her throat, small and feminine and utterly weak. Her mother wouldn’t have shrieked. Her mother would have laughed. Of course, her mum had been… but that doesn’t matter, not when there’s danger, here and immediate.

 

“Oh look,” the fat man says, and his voice is nasal. “We found ourselves a little lost kitty.”

 

“Little kitties shouldn’t be out alone on nights like this,” the small man says from behind her. No matter how she turns, she can’t get them both in view. “You never know what might happen.”

 

She wishes, suddenly and irrationally, for her father. Not to hurt the men, though it had been her mother who was the pacifist and her father who spoke of necessary evils and kept a gun in one of the kitchen drawers, but for his unshakeable calm.

 

There’s a tiny can of hairspray in her handbag, the kind that makes your eyes burn enough to blind you. Her hands shake as she fumbles it out. Her fingers are slick with sweat, and they slide away when she tries to press the button on the top of the can. The man in front of her laughs and knocks it out of her hand with a long black truncheon.

 

Her gasp is instinctive, speech impossible as she realises just how much trouble she’s truly in.

 

If she allowed herself to believe that a world this full of pain and hate were ruled over by a benevolent God, she’d offer a prayer that it’s at least quick. She knows the stories about Fingermen, and more than that, she knows the look in their eyes, well enough to know that it will be painful not matter what, but if it could at least be quick…

 

Her training, conditioning from years of blending in, is telling her to run, but her instincts, older and stronger and more primal than anything the Facility instilled in her, are telling her to stand her ground. To fight with words and claws she doesn’t have.

 

The growl that begins low in her throat sounds wrong to her, lacking the predatory harmonics that had made would-be attackers run from her parents, but her hind-brain is in control and she can no more stop herself than she can run.

 

There’s laughter behind her, soft and sounding nothing like the Fingerman she knows is moving closer.

 

She spins in time to see the small man stagger, a high whine escaping his throat, the knife imbedded in his shoulder glinting in the weak light from distant street lamps.

 

A figure steps from the darkness behind him, tall and thin and dressed in swirling black, his face hidden behind a grinning mask.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen and lady,” he says, and offers a little bow to Eve. “Miserable night, isn’t? One quite expects to find wicked Jack lurking in one of these alleys.”

 

His tone is light and cultured, but Eve recognises something in his stance and movements. This man is a predator, and he’s completely certain that none of them can hurt him.

 

He crouches, movements so quick and fluid that they’re almost invisible, and retrieves his knife from the fallen man. Then man screams when the blade is pulled out of him.

 

“I’ve always had an interest in toxicology,” the man says, his mask smiling its death’s-head smile. “The Ebola virus, for example. Quite fascinating. Of course, my version is much more virulent. I would estimate that our poor friend here has less than five minutes left to live.” He nudges the fallen man with the toe of a neatly polished boot.

 

He tilts his head, staring at the fat man Eve can hear breathing heavily behind her.

 

“I recognise that as agents of the government you are given a certain leeway with regards to your behaviour,” he says, “But it does not make you immune to the law.” He swirls past Eve, making her shiver, and imbeds his knife in the man’s throat. There’s a horrible gurgling scream, and a thud as the man falls. “Quid custodiet ipsos custodes?” he asks lightly. “Me.”

 

Eve takes a step back when he turns to look at her, adrenaline making her shake, but she’s not afraid. Her instincts are telling her that he’s not here to hurt her, and she trusts her instincts.

 

He offers her a little bow. “I do apologise for interrupting your evening,” he says. “My name, for the present, is M.”

 

“Eve,” Eve says, taken aback by the man’s old fashioned courtesy. “Eve Watson.”

 

Hidden behind the mask, she can’t read his expression, but there’s something odd in his tone as he ways, “Watson. But of course. It had to be.”

 

She doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she wants to go home.

 

As she takes a step back, he reaches out, catches her arm lightly.

 

“I am attending a little concert this evening Miss Watson,” he says. “I would be honoured if you would accompany me.”

 

His touch is gentle, but she can feel the strength carefully concealed within the gloved fingers.

 

“I don’t know anything about music,” she offers.

 

“I assure you, that does not matter. I seek not expertise, but companionship.”

 

The shadows make the mask appear demonic. ‘Mephistopheles’, she thinks.

 

She drops an awkward little curtsey, all her instincts telling her that she’s safe. “I would be delighted.”

 

***************************************************************

 

He takes her to the roof of a block of flats. He’d led the way, ducking down side alleys and clambering over the piles of rubbish, not waiting for her, or even looking back to make sure she’s keeping up.

 

When they come to the building he’s aiming for, he jumps, higher and further than she thinks should be possible, and pulls down the end of the fire escape. He takes her arm as the climb, tucking her hand against his elbow. The fabric of his coat is soft.

 

Once they’re on the roof he bounds over to the very edge, his toes sticking out over the twelve story drop. He throws his arms wide. “London,” he says, with something like awe in his voice. “The greatest city in the world, despite all that’s been done to her in recent years.”

 

It looks beautiful, twinkling with light despite the curfew.

 

Opposite them is the Old Bailey, blind Justice facing them, arms spread wide, welcoming the people to her temple.

 

“Once, she ruled over this city,” M says softly. “Queen of all she surveyed. But she has been corrupted.” He raised his head, apparently addressing the statue itself. “You are no longer worthy to stand above us, my lady.”

 

He’s a madman, Eve thinks. A charming madman, who killed two men without so much as flinching.

 

“Have you the time?” he asks politely. “And the date?”

 

The blue light of her phone’s screen casts weird shadows across M’s mask.

 

“Three minutes to midnight,” she tells him. “November the fourth.”

 

“Then it’s time,” he replies, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

 

It takes her a moment to hear it, the music pouring from the speakers, swelling and growing.

 

“1812,” her companion says. “A petty little war, but a beautiful piece of music.”

 

He raises his hands, longer slender fingers encased in black leather, and begins to conduct the music, head tipped back in ecstasy.

 

“And now,” he says, so softly that she almost doesn’t hear him, “the final crescendo.”

 

The music builds and swells, filling her, and then the first explosion cuts through the night air.

 

The statue of justice topples, turning over and over as she falls, while around her the venerable dome of the Bailey explodes in a riot of fireworks.

 

Eve wants to run, sure that she’ll be caught with this madman, accused of abetting him, but she’s frozen to the spot, fixated by the majestic swell of the music and the explosions of light.

 

As the music stills, leaving behind a ringing silence, M leans forward to peer over the parapet at where Justice lies, one arm snapped off, scales imbedded in the pavement.

 

“Once she was blind to creed and colour,” he says softly. “But she became blind to injustice.”

 

The night air presses against Eve and she shivers.

 

Beside her, M whispers into the darkness. “Remember remember the 5th of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got tumblr, be my friend at lentilswitheverything or find my multi-fandom fic recs at gluttonforpunishment


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